This is a thoughtful time of year. I had leftover brunkartoffler with eggs and sausage for breakfast and thought about things. And then went to work, as a man who wants to feed his family is wont to do. Off work, I’ve been in the shoppe – honing my scroll saw skills. I’m flirting with whittling again, and am looking to start making wooden sculptures. I made some painfully amateurish idols of Odin and Tyr last year. I know at least whatever I do now will be better. I’m carving out a Venus Laussel plaque as it goes, having finished an Iron Cross plaque I thought came out well. I want to make an Erin go Bragh relief plaque, if Venus works out. Then, maybe, I’ll finally start that Etsy shop and rake in some side shekels. But I’ve also been saying that for three years.
As for me, I can break up the endless thinking with living. Seaxwife, Seaxling and I went to a thrift shop. For my part I entertained myself by sneaking up on wee lad and blitztickling him with a feather duster I found. +10% amusement bonus vs. little old ladies and -45% vs. dyejob shitlibs with punished ovaries. Towards the end of the trip my wife pointed out a little shelf full of Pilgrim swag. One of them, a hearty little Englishwoman in her black dress and white bonnet baking a pie with a brick oven, caught my eye. Knew right off I’d drill a slot in the chimney stack for to burn incense out of. Will the wonders ever cease?
I find the last gasps of Summer as Fall comes to be a delightful time, good for artistic endeavours. The sky speaks in somber, chilling and soothing shades. Abortive efforts at drawing seem more furtive as snow draws near. The smell of hot wood oil, stirred up by saw and burner kit hangs on the air. Folks begin to think of spice, and flannel, ain’t that nice?
The other day, as of writing this, we celebrated the Autumnal Equinox. This was done with a couple households from Mainerbund. It was done in a number of places on the same day for the purposes of blessing some new babies. One of which, if my math is right, was born sometime after we celebrated Winternights before the Coof began.
I will spare the reader the nitty gritty. The long and short of it, is we do a water blessing for new babies. We do this in commemoration of the times when our Ancestors practised Exposure. For obvious reasons this precedent is no longer readily done. Although I’ll argue, with the hill ZOG has set us up to run upwards that for a husband and wife to get their children, is a rite of passage enough. With crippling infertility on the rise, engineered by Product Konsoomed and Gods only know what from atmospheric pollution. And if socially assisted infertility and impotence weren’t enough, there is the question of rising infant mortality rates “because reasons. ” (The Coof Juice vaxx bullshit being in that list.) Anywho. We’ve begun adding a naming ceremony into the mix. One assumes a child was not named until after the Exposure, proven worthy. A name holds an element of Fate. It strikes me that thoughts of Fate and suchlike ought to begin in youth. So while parents would have named the child, what’s not known is if they actuated the names. This separates us from the main who go online and find lists of names, or name their children for Hollywood stars and starlets – unthought out and decadent.
Memories begin before most of us want to give credit. Speaking your intentions to your child in these tender years can’t hurt. Every child should know what’s in their father’s souls. I grew up wondering what the point of all this is for, never knowing if anything anyone said was true or a trick. I see no reason not to do better by my boy. He will know his kith and kinfolk, and his place in the World. So will all our children, as our families build deeper bonds. That’s a chain not easily broken, I don’t care what your background is- building your sticks around the family will forget an axe strong enough to deter those who would break the chain.
Those children, they don’t grow on trees. Neither do the women that give them to you, for you to pass on your name and sake to them. They are all of them precious things, which we aren’t owed. The truth runs brutally to the opposite of any notions of entitlement. A testament to this truth is the legion of sad man whose selection strategy has compounded loneliness upon spiritual infirmity. The same, I suppose, can be said of women who have been thrust rudderless into a dysmorphic world with no real coping mechanisms to survive other than to retvrn and become what they would have been. Or not, perhaps the question is open. What I do know, is those women who of their own will give up the reins and become “domestic goddesses” seem much happier than careerists, or more to the point those sad women I see baking in the sun holding the signs with Larry the unemployed Cable Guy.
Anyway, we blessed the babies near and far. My house served flæsketej and brunkartoffler with a recipe for Swedish oats. A friend’s wife made a whole turkey and infinity biscuits with butternut squash soup. A good time was had by all. Except ZOG, which I like to think reeeeeees balefully whenever families retvrn to any Tradition; old or new – which takes them away from that old electric yid in the living room. The electric yid fears the Thundergod, and there is always the risk that he or she who escapes the couch might return to the Eternal Forest – as it were.
Whatever. Having run the risk of losing both my wife and son, but being fated to keep both, I feel the power behind the rational of the baby blessing as evolving from older forms of Exposure. My son made it, just as sons who lived through Exposure would have had a firm destiny. And the naming as a means of impressing their fate. I think of Askr and Embla who were breathed in by Odin and his brothers, perhaps shades of himself, and were given good hue – and fate. What’s to say that by the mere act of naming your child, that you aren’t continuing in that timeless tradition.
Beyond that, something we’ve talked about in our group, is a means to an end for Asatru (for lack of better terms) and how to work in rituals and belief. I come back to the harvest, and while some of us grow, none are farmers. Around here anyway, we have some from Away but not close enough to be useful. The more I delve into Gronbech’s writing, the more I think about something that dawned on me around a year and a half ago when leadership asked me to educate our pagans about the Runes.
Children are as much of a crop being reaped from a harvest that’s sewn. My own son was born in January, after a drag of a winter. I’m not alone, I’m told spring babies are quite the thing. Still it goes, that the celebration of children and their mothers is an end we can attain. And one that would, I think, soften the women who might otherwise be less comfortable in our cause – it being one that bears an element of risk of social castigation. And of course, customs and “deviations” from the ZOG approved norm.
I also think about Fall. New England is full of Harvest rites and festivals. Tit for tat we haven’t got to look far. Sure, none of them are overtly Pagan. Until they are. It’s funny. Thanksgiving was always my favourite Holiday. It’s funny because I’m a crank, growing up holidays were meaningless. There was no traditional value in them. However, I always looked forward to seeing the roll out of the Pilgrim Statues- the rugged bearded men with their hats and the stout ladies with their bonnets. It never occurred to me until about five years ago, that those statues speak to my ancestry. The Seaxes, such as we were, came with the Pilgrims. Whether we were Puritan, I cannot say because my family tree lacks what Lovecraft humorously called “jaw breaking Hebrew names.” There is an odd John or Samuel, but there were far more Williams, Edwards, Oscars, Richards and so forth. Uncommon in a see of horribly named Zebulons, Abimelechs and what-have-you. Given my instinctual abhorrence against absolutes and unqualified authority and simultaneous desire to return to a more traditional society… I would expect that centrism ran in my bloodstream for many generations thence.
At any rate. I have read enough contemporary books on Asatru to know the esoteric symbolism of the Pilgrim Lady and why Freya Aswynn (and others) feel she might be Sif or Idunn. But more than that, if one understands epigenetics, Thanksgiving is celebrating a return. In some way, part of “me” was there. Self being a byproduct of family, being a byproduct of clan, being a byproduct of tribe and then race. We know that the English Harvest Rites which became Thanksgiving were tied into older, and maybe more cthonic rites. I tend to believe from what I’ve read that they track back further than Lammas and are tied to Nerthus – or Erce who were Goddesses quite important to our ancestors, evidence pointing to an overarching Mother Goddess even bigger in spiritual stature than crafty Wōden who would become Hælend. Whatever the case, I feel it in my bones. And that’s enough.
With that, I’m off to my shoppe. Good day.